A Transient Existence
by Ajali
Summary: Oneshot. First Wincest attempt. The culmination of a lifetime of 'just us' and utter trust, fulfilling a desire neither had voiced even to themselves, and the right outweighed the wrong and they'd flouted so many of society's laws already, what did it mat


**A Transient Existence.**

There had been crying, tears resulting from fading fear and the overwhelming gratitude that finding yourself still alive after being confronted by your own death by things you _knew_ didn't exist, knew they couldn't because they were just stories handed down generation to generation created way back when science and information had not been so widespread and strange things needed to have an explanation of _some_ form.

The two young men were the subject of that gratitude, but although it felt real to the people giving it, they knew it was borne only from the rush of _life_ they still had. The people they saved were the people who eyed them with suspicion, wary and a perhaps a touch of scorn in their gaze at their rugged attire, the transient lives of two drifters with a quest in their eyes and a shadow over their existence.

At least until their safe lives were threatened and their only saviour came in the form of something they'd been taught were the dregs of society.

And should they stay, accept offers of hospitality, sometimes the gratitude turned to resentment, their presence reminding them of things that couldn't exist, _shouldn't_ _be real_. And so they became threats to safety again, but for completely different reasons. Not all ended up resenting them. Mostly because they left before gratitude could become twisted, but sometimes because they had seemingly failed in their protection, and the truth became part of their reality.

Sometimes, their retreating forms were viewed with longing and sadness.

This time, they didn't stay long enough to let gratitude become stale, or questions to be asked, they simply left, duty done, to tend their wounds.

Another faceless motel, sparsely furnished but clean, comforting in its anonymity. They would be gone by morning, long before anyone could ask about the bloodstains left on the towels. Both weary, aching in places that weren't restricted to the physical.

One lowered himself onto the bed, grimacing at something far too familiar, the other rinsing his hands with water and then an alcohol-based antiseptic gel with calm proficiency before retrieving objects from a dark duffle bag, and moving to the other man's side.

"Dean, shirt," was all he said and the other moved to obey, too weary for debate or light comments. The un-curtained windows reflected smooth muscle rippling with the movement, the only sound was the sharp catch of breath as barbs of pain spiked his torso, and the disproving hiss from the younger as he surveyed his brothers body.

The torn, bloody garment was dropped to the floor, forgotten, and deft hands moved for the clean hand-towel and cloth soaked in warm water.

Dean allowed his eyes to slip closed as Sam ran the damp cloth over the gashes under his shoulder. They stung at the contact but it wasn't intolerable. And he knew worse was to come.

The slashes were deep, deep enough to make movement of his closer arm unpleasant and worth avoiding, so he braced himself against his left arm, fingers splayed on the coverlet, unmoving. He never moved much when he was hurt or scared, bracing himself for what was to come.

The water in the bowl was dark with a clear red, and Sam pressed the dry towel against his rubs under the tapering edge of his lowest wound to catch the excess moisture that left clearer trails amongst the dried blood on his skin.

He gasped when the cloth-and-water was replaced by the sting of peroxide.

"Sorry." Sam's muttered response was barely audible, more automatic than anything else. He nodded and settled back further to allow him better access. Peroxide was never pleasant, scorching the nerve endings in severed skin, a sharp sting that robbed the breath from you, seeping into the wound and seemed to enlarge it with every heartbeat that _by damn_ you could feel.

When did Sam become so rough? He cracked his eyelids to send his brother an irritable glare, but Sam wasn't looking at him. His entire focus was on the hard planes of Dean's body and the ugly slashes that marred it. Dark hair curved over the tops of his ears and hid his brow, deep eyes narrowed further in concentration, dry lower lip snagged behind one white tooth.

Dean twisted slightly under Sam's hands as his brother worked the cloth over the deepest gash, but he embraced the pain. Fighting it tended to make it think it was proving a point and was worth sticking around. If he embraced it, it got confused and slipped through him without leaving too much memory of its passage.

"_Too damn close."_

"Come again?" He wasn't sure if Sam had intended Dean to hear. Sam stopped. Not just halted, but his hands stopped moving, and his breath had caught and was yet to resume. Heartbeats passed and then Sam met his gaze. Rapid emotions flickered across his younger brothers features, too fast to interpret, before settling on one. Default annoyance.

"You came too damn close today Dean." His voice was plaintive, fear disguised as irritation, concern and accusation battling for dominance in his dark eyes. Yes, his eyes were definitely dark now. There was a tension in the silence that Dean had somehow missed earlier.

Dean's default kicked in. He scoffed. "Too close? I'm still here, aren't I?"

"You know what-"

"Besides, couldn't let it get that girl."

"I _know_ that! Will you just-"

"No-one else was close enough."

"You could've-"

"Besides, they're just scratches. I'd say worth getting to save that little girls-"

"Dean! You're cutting me off because you know I'm telling the truth!"

A heartbeat passed in silence. And another. It was a busy silence though, turgid with the tension. Dean looked away.

"Just patch me up Sam."

He didn't miss Sam's frustrated sigh, nor how the cloth was handled slighter rougher than before.

Minutes passed in silence, stoic and fortified.

He honestly wasn't that badly off. The creature had gotten a lucky hit on him, had slashed him with sharp claws that were intended for the six year old he had slammed into as he leapt to her defence. They might have been deep enough for muscle, but he'd had worse in his career, and he was the only one damaged.

Granted, it had thrown him into a tree before Sam had managed to kill it with a furious barrage of bullets, but there was nothing broken, he knew because he had tested his ribs at the scene, when he had regained the ability to breathe.

"You're going to need a couple of stitches." Sam's tone was clipped. Still irate. Terrier personality. He could never let things just slide.

"Fun," he muttered.

Sam just glared, before preparing curved needle and surgical twine. _Any moment now_, Dean thought. And he was right. Sam was kneeling before him, left hand gripping Dean's right shoulder, short breaths ghosting across Dean's damp, bare skin, lifting the hairs and igniting a faint tremor inside him, someone not tangible, not physical, but there and _felt_ nonetheless.

"You could have just shot it-"

"Sam…" Dean warned.

"No!" It was nearly a shout. "You had a loaded gun, and could have dropped that….whatever-it-was soon enough!"

Dean felt like laughing, but didn't. He knew it would sound…manic. Sam had worked himself up enough to forget the pronunciation, to forget even the name. It didn't happen often. Dean himself couldn't be bothered to remember it.

"That might not have killed it Sammy." Dean's voice was gentler now. Statement of fact rather than cajoling. "I could have missed…"

Sam snorted. Dean continued regardless.

"…or we could have got it's details wrong. Or it could have caught her as it fell."

"But you just _threw_ yourself-"

"It was the only way. I couldn't risk it!"

"You always-"

"Sam, we won. I'm not hurt-"

"I'm _stitching you up_ if you hadn't noticed-"

"-much. What the hell is your problem." Dean's words were without heat, but that only seemed to incite Sam further.

"You're such a martyr!" It was a shout, and Sam punctuated it with a rough shake of the shoulder he still gripped. "You never think! You just act and it'll get you killed one day and I won't have your back in time to stop it!"

Apparently, silences could echo, Sam's last words ended but not finished, ringing on chill air that had nothing to do with temperature.

_I love you_, was what Sam had really said. _I love you and I'm scared._

His younger brothers eyes were silver with unshed tears, a naked desperation visible on his suddenly-young features.

Unvoiced tension lent a static to the air, two bodies charged with a fundamental need, close enough to feel the whisper of shallow breaths against sensitive skin. The exhaled breath of one became the new breath of the other, humid and heavy with their mingled scent.

Dean's heart was pounding at a tempo nearly frantic enough to disguise the audible pull of Sam's lungs, and small details became suddenly, unaccountably noticeable. The soft shine of Sam's hair under the lamp, the way his tongue slipped nervously to wet his lips, his own hands clenched in the bedcovers.

Sam was going to speak, something irrelevant, something to backtrack and regain his composure after such an outburst, and something in Dean suddenly, desperately didn't want him to.

With a rush of sensation that included _right-wrong-need-no-way-now _he leant forward and covered Sam's mouth with his own, stubble faintly rasping against skin and teeth clashing in desperation and need.

It lasted but a couple of seconds before Dean pulled back, terrified. Sam was still, eyes wide in shock and lips parted and red. He slowly raised one hand to brush a knuckle in a turbulent confusion against the corner of his mouth.

A fearful apology rose in the back of Dean's throat.

But it was silenced as Sam surged forward and upwards and their lips met again in acceptance and desire, no less rushed than the first.

It was clumsy and full of fear and love and frustration, but it was sweet and heady and more intoxicating than the most potent opiates either of them had experienced. At times gentle and cautious, at others fierce and controlling, powerful young bodies pressed together in a furious combination of love and need, promise and the culmination of a lifetime of _just us_ and utter trust, fulfilling a desire neither had voiced even to themselves, and the _right_ outweighed the _wrong_ and they flouted so many of societies laws already, what did it matter a few more?

They didn't sleep that night.

They belonged to another world. A different reality, an existence unfathomable to most. And they belonged to each other. And it was enough.

**Authors Note **By Ajali, for Livi. Hope you enjoyed sweetheart! Happy Birthday!

I've never written Slash before, let alone Wincest, so a) am a little nervous about it and b) I doubt I'll be doing it again unless specifically requested. I hope I've done this right and oh god I think I'm just going to post it now…


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